Tremor of Intent (20 page)

‘So,' said a remembered voice, ‘you're up to your tricks again, are you? Creeping up on me nastily with your spying tricks. And if I say I'll tell the police you'll say that you are the police. This,' he told the embracing couple waiting with him, ‘is what I call a
samozvanyets
. He thinks to disguise himself by wearing a police uniform, but I'm up to all his tricks. All right,' he said to Hillier, ‘what if I do work at the Black Sea Hotel? It's the big ones you ought to be after,
not poor devils like us working in the kitchen. We don't get the chance, not that I'd take it if I got it. I've always kept my nose clean, I have. Ought to be ashamed of yourself, you ought.' Hillier did a resigned barmy-take-no-notice shoulder-shrug for the open-mouthed couple (open-mouthed, he then saw, because they were chewing American gum). The tram rattled up, its trolley sparking. It was a single-decker.

‘The next thing you'll be saying is you don't know the fare,' said the man, comfortably seated opposite Hillier. ‘Go on, say it.'

‘I don't know the fare.'

‘What did I tell you?' he announced in triumph to the five passengers. ‘Well, it's ten kopeks. As you knew all the time,
samozvanyets
.'

The conductress ignored Hillier's proffer. The police, then, travelled free. She was a sort of bread-and-butter pudding of a girl, in a uniform that fitted deplorably.

‘That's right,' said the man. ‘One law for the rich, another for the poor. Moscow,' he sneered. ‘Why can't they leave us alone?'

Hillier gathered a lungful of breath and shouted: ‘
Zamolchi!
' To his surprise the man
did
shut up, though he grumbled to himself. ‘Going there now, are you?' asked Hillier, more kindly. ‘To the hotel, I mean.'

‘I'm not saying anything,' said the man. ‘I've said too much already.' He took from his hip-pocket a very old-looking magazine called
Sport
and started to read a full-page photograph of a high-jumper with gloomy intentness. Hillier lighted a White Sea Canal, first twisting the cardboard mouthpiece, and looked out of the window. The tram turned right off the boulevard into a narrow street of pretty stucco houses with bougainvillea prominent in the front gardens. A street-lamp showed one clump of the flower up clearly, a glow of red and lilac petaloid bracts. Again that blessed world beyond politics. The tram turned left, and there beyond on the right was the sea with lights winking. There was no esplanade. Instead there were workers' holiday hostels in garish
primary colours, each with its private beach. In one a dance was swinging away to out-of-date music, corny trumpet and saxophone in unison on
You Want Lovin' But I Want Love
. Was that distinction possible in Russian? The tram stopped.

‘As you well know,' said the man opposite, tucking away his
Sport
, ‘we're here.' He let, or made, Hillier get off first.

The Chornoye Morye Hotel was on the left, away from the beach but with a winding path through a rich but ill-tended garden. Its name was on a board, floodlighted. The architecture was good Victorian English seaside, a sort of Blackpool Hydro with striped awnings. Hillier was disturbed to find plain-clothes men, bullish, thuggish, patrolling near the ornate entrance. But, of course, a temporary requisition. A scientific conference, big stuff, state stuff, the S-man, despite negative reports from the docks, perhaps really at large. That damned man was behind him, saying: ‘There you are. Real police. They'll see through you. They'll know you for what you are,
samozvanyets
.' Hillier blazed. He turned on the man, grasped him by his dirty kitchen-worker's collar and pulled him into an arbour of cypress and myrtle and begonia. He said: ‘This gun I have is not just for show. I shall use it on you without hesitation. We can't have filthy little nobodies like you getting in the way of vital state business.'

‘I'll confess everything.' The man gibbered. ‘It was only two cartons. The head waiter's in it up to his eyeballs.'

‘English or American?'

‘
Lakki Straiyk
. Two cartons. I swear. Nothing else.'

‘Let me see you go straight to the kitchen entrance. Any nonsense at all and I shan't think twice about shooting.'

‘And the
Direktors
in it. Watches. Swiss watches. Give me time and I'll make out a full list of names.'

‘Go on.' Hillier butted him with his gun-butt. ‘Get in there and nothing more will be said. But if I hear that you've been talking any more nonsense about impostors –'

The man snivelled. ‘It's back to the days of Stalin,' he said. ‘All bullying and threatening. It was different when we had poor old Nikita.'

This man was a nonentity, yes, a
nichtozhestvo
, but nonentities talked more than entities; what he said in the kitchen (probably scullery) would be transmitted very quickly to the office of the
Direktor
. A sort of copper sniffing after smuggled fags. Chewing-gum too, perhaps. A thug in a cheap suit, the right jacket-pocket weighted down, rotated his jaws as he said to Hillier, with little deference, ‘Any news? Any sign of anybody?' From within the hotel came noise and a faint percussion of glasses clinked in toasts: here's to you; here's to me; here's to Soviet science.

‘False alarm,' said Hillier. Another thug came up, a Baltic type, to peer at Hillier as though, which he couldn't, he couldn't quite place him. ‘There's a Doctor Roper here,' said Hillier, ‘an Englishman.'

‘
Da
,
Doktor Ropyr
,
Anglichanin
. Trouble at last, eh?'

‘Why should there be trouble?' Hillier proffered his White Sea Canals and took one himself. He was dying for a real smoke, one of his filthy Brazilians. Thank God he'd brought some with him. Later, talking quietly with Roper, he would have one. ‘There's no trouble that I know of. Something to do with his papers, that's all. A matter of routine.'

‘Ah,
rutina
.' The first thug shrugged. Hillier was welcome to go in if he wanted. The other thug said: ‘
Moskva?
'

‘That's right, Moscow.'

‘You don't talk like a Moscow man.' Nor like a Yarylyuk one either. You couldn't win.

‘I,' said Hillier, ‘am an Englishman who speaks very good
Russian.' That went straight to their hearts. They waved him in, puffing laughter through their
papirosi
.

The entrance-hall was shabby and pretentious. There were a couple of noseless stone goddesses sightlessly welcoming, both eroded as by November rain, their glory gone. The carpet had, in places, worn down to a woofless warp; in other places there were holes, the biggest one outside the gentleman's
tualet
. An old man in uniform chewed his beard outside the lift-gates, though the lift was labelled
Nye Rabotayet
– Out of Order. He was sticking to his post, all he had. The dining-room was straight ahead, full of what Hillier took to be Soviet scientists. Most seemed rosy and happy: this seaside convention was doing them good. They were seated, in fours and sixes, at tables with little flags of provenance, though surely all must now be convivially stirred up, making nonsense of all divisions outside of palpable ethnology. Hillier squinted through the smoke: limp pennants for the Ukrainian, Azerbaijan, Georgian, Uzbek, Kazakh, Tajik, Kirghiz, Turkmen Soviet Socialist Republics, but blaring banners (several) for the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic. Time was short. That scullion nonentity might already be at work. Where was Roper? Hillier dredged the Slav, Lithuanian, Moldavian Armenian, Ostyak, Uzbek, Chuvash, Chechenet roaring and toasting commingling for an Anglo-Saxon face. The trouble was that no one would stay still. No sense of guilt stirred by the presence of a police uniform, the scientists quaffed to each other (Budvar beer, Russian champagne, Georgian muscatel, vodka and konyak by the hundred-gramme fiasco) in amiable contortions – arms linked at the elbow, close bodily embraces so that each drank the other's, alternate cheek-smackings between draughts. Some of the scientists were ancient and giggled naughtily in their cups, beards framing wet lips framing few or no teeth. Where the hell was Roper? Hillier grabbed a white-coated waiter with a spilling tray, young, cocky, his Mongol hair in a cock-crest.

‘
Gdye Doktor Ropyr?
'

‘
Kto? Anglichanin
.'

The waiter laughed and nodded towards the far end of the dining-room. There was a glass door there that seemed to lead to a garden. ‘
Izvyergayet
,' he said gaily. Being sick, was he? That seemed typical of Roper somehow. Hillier marched towards that door.

A string of fairy-lights with gaps in the series was draped among the cypresses: surely a scientific conference ought to be able to do better than that. Otherwise it was dark, the moon still unrisen. Hillier urgently whispered: ‘Roper?' There was a response of hiccups, somehow Russianised:
ikota
,
ikota
,
ikota
. Wherever he was, he was outside the square of light that came from the window. Hillier flicked his lighter, thought he might, while he was at it, have a coarse Brazilian, so lit up one. Better, much better. ‘Roper?' A man came up with an electric torch, a new thug, so Hillier doused his light. The man sprayed the police uniform with his beam then, satisfied, grunted and spotlighted a hiccuping shape on a stone garden-seat. ‘You,' laughed the man, ‘are the Englishman who speaks very good Russian.' Either he was one of the hotel-entrance thugs or else the joke had spread quickly. ‘Here is another Englishman whose Russian is not so good.'

‘Go away,' said Hillier. ‘We want to talk.'

Roper, by the sound of it, was sick. ‘Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,' he prayed, in English.

‘
Amin
,' said the Russian in Russian. Then he said: ‘If you want to talk, go to the massage-hut there. Wait, I'll switch on the light for you. Shall I bring strong coffee?'

‘That's kind,' said Hillier, uneasy that things were going so well.

‘
Ikota
,' went Roper. ‘
Ikota ikota
.' And then, at the end of a little path of myrtle and roses, disclosed by the walking torch, bright light, as of an interrogation-chamber, suddenly shone. Hillier took Roper's arm.

‘
Kto?
' asked sick Roper, with a very English vowel.

‘
Politsia
.
Rutina
.'

‘Oh God,' said Roper in English. ‘I meant no harm walking out like that. I can't take it like they can. I wasn't trying to be insulting.'

‘
Chto?
'

‘
Nichevo
,' said Roper. ‘Bloody blasted
nichevo
. I think I'm going to be sick again.' He retched, but
nichevo
came up.

‘Perhaps,' said the thug, ‘vinegar would be better than coffee.' In the full light of the hut his face showed most un-thuggish: it had something of the helpful shop-assistant in it.

‘Coffee,' said Hillier. ‘And thank you. But take your time about it. Shall we say in about ten minutes?'

‘
Ikota ikota
.' Hillier kept his face averted from Roper as they entered the light.

‘Ten minutes,' agreed the man, and went off.

‘Now,' said Hillier in English. ‘How do you feel now, Roper?' He looked full on him and was appalled by the ageing of the face. The tow hair was patchily grey; there was a twitch near the right eye. Roper looked up and stopped hiccuping. He said: ‘Funny. I was thinking of you only the other day.' He tottered towards one of the four army cots on which, Hillier presumed, massage was done after ball-games on the beach, and lay on it, eyes closed. He got up swiftly and blinked. ‘The bottom of the bed started coming up. The only thing that hasn't. Matric English,' said Roper. ‘The Authorised Version of the Book of Job. For the literature, not the religion. And you said that Eliphaz and Bildad and Zophar were a proper bloody lot of Job's comforters.'

‘Strange you should remember that.'

‘Oh, I've been remembering a lot of things lately.'

‘Strange you should remember the names. I'd completely forgotten them. Where does that door lead to?' There was a door at the back of the hut. Hillier opened it and looked out. There was faint
light now, the moon rising. He saw a high stone wall, full of crannies. Beyond the sea shook its tambourines.

‘I read the Bible a lot,' said Roper. ‘The Douay Version. It's not so good as the Authorised. The bloody Protestants have always had the best of everything.' He closed his eyes. ‘Oh God. It's the bloody mixture that does it. They've all got iron stomachs, this lot.'

‘I've come to take you home, Roper.'

‘Home? To Kalinin?' He opened his eyes. ‘I see you're in the police now. Funny, I should have thought they'd put you to spying or something. God, I do feel bad.'

‘Don't be a fool, Roper. Wake up. You may have gone over to the Russians, but I haven't. Wake up, you bloody idiot. I'm still in the same game. I'm taking you back to England.'

Roper opened his eyes and began to shake. ‘England. Filthy England. Kidnapping me, is that it? Taking me back to prison and making me stand trial and then hanging me. You're a traitor, whatever-your-name-is, I can't-remember-your-name, you're in the bloody conspiracy, it's been going on for four hundred years and more. Get out of my sight, I'll scream for help, you bastard.'

‘Hillier. Remember? Denis Hillier. If you even attempt to scream I'll – Never mind. Look, Roper, there's no question of kidnapping. I've brought letters with me. Nobody's going to do anything to you. You're needed back in England, it's as simple as that. There's a quite fantastic offer here in my pocket. The trouble is, I haven't time for nice cosy easy gentle persuasion. I've got to get you out of here now.'